Friend and Foe
by piKnic
Summary: After their mission on Katina, tensions are building amongst the Star Fox team. What will become of Slippy? (during Star Fox 64)
1. Chapter 1: In the Shadow of Duty

In the vastness of deep space, all was drenched in a permeating twilight. When the lights went out on the Great Fox, its crew became shadowed in a darkness that waxed as they passed behind one of Lylat's many planets or moons, and waned as they emerged into the farthest reaches of Solar's glow. Stationed this night in the shadow of Katina, the faint white light of endless stars cast a pale illumination in the halls of Star Fox Team's flagship, and spilled through the door of Fox McCloud's quarters as he opened it.

Fox was perched on the edge of his bed, wearing his navy-colored Captain's housecoat, with fatigue-slumped shoulders. Even further were they weighed down by the pressures of the past day, when he and Falco, Slippy, and Peppy had taken out the gigantic alien mothership Saucerer, before it could vaporise the Frontline Base on Katina. Since Corneria's failure to secure the planet for colonization, the Cornerian Fleet had felt a particular debt to the area and now leapt to its protection at a moment's notice.

Fox had opened the door with a swat of a weary hand to the wall-mounted room controls. He was not often seen by his crew in such a state; to them, in combat and the anxiety leading up to it, he broadcasted a calm level-headedness that none other possessed. He was their infallible, fearless leader, in the crucible of their everyday lives. But now, he could barely stand.

Fox lumbered heavily across his room and over to the far side of the hall, where he could see the outlying planet large in the starboard window. He leaned his elbows on the windowsill of the eye-level glass pane and stared out at the rusty brown surface. It was now so pocked with craters, left at the crash sites of hundreds of fallen fighters, and grazed by laser fire that it was virtually unrecognizable as its former self.

Catching a faint noise, Fox turned an ear, like a satellite dish, to the side. The clink of footfalls on the grating underfoot grew closer and louder, until a voice finally announced the presence responsible.

"Purty, ain't it…?" the impudent voice floated down the metal corridor. Soon its owner strolled into view, with steps light and agile even at the late hour.

"Falco, you scared me," Fox lied, his gaze not leaving the view outside. "What's brings you here in the middle of the night?"

"Oh, you know, just roaming aimlessly, haunting the halls… can't keep still for too long, you know; gotta stay sharp." Falco, still in his day clothes – white sports jacket, red pilot's uniform, and polished white boots – stepped up to the window and turned with a rustle of his iridescent blue feathers to join Fox in his stargazing. "But hey, it's normal for me. I should be asking _you_ why _you_'re here."

"I didn't feel like sleeping," he replied simply, as he did to most of Falco's questioning. The sardonic bird had a fast mouth and flying skills to match, but his jeering and chiding solicited little reaction from Fox, a man of few words. Which was just as well – the two got along fine most of the time, each holding a quiet respect for the other's differences and skill. They were undoubtedly the closest wingmates among the four.

"Yeah, we had a real field day down there, didn't we? Gets the blood pounding too loud in the ears for sleep." Falco heaved a laboured sigh that belied the battle-happy words he spoke. He was only his hot-tempered, pigheaded pilot self by day, when he was in the seat of his Arwing; underneath that skin, there was a man of mystery, deep reflections and unspoken sadness, mature beyond his years.

"I hope Bill and the others will be alright, now," Fox said worriedly. "On days like yesterday, when we get launched down on a planet totally overrun by the enemy, I think long and hard of how little we can really do to halt Andross' advance, with just our small force…"

"Now hold on just a second." Falco turned to face Fox, his crest of head feathers raised to its full height. Fox knew he'd incited Falco's ire.

"We do plenty," the latter continued. "We may be small in numbers, but we've never failed a mission and we certainly pushed them back today. Bill and the others are fine, that much is plain to see. So what's _really_ eating you?" he squawked the question.

At this, Fox finally met Falco's gaze, his eyes full of surprise and secrets. He drew in a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth, and he resettled into his position at the window. The bird stared back, his gaze full of knowing, and, deciding he was satisfied with the reaction, gave a tension-breaking chuckle.

"Ha, I'll let it go." He pressed a finger to the insignia that adorned the left chest pocket of Fox's housecoat. "Don't be a stranger, Cap'n."

With that, he disappeared back into the night.


	2. Chapter 2: A Fateful Escape

Early the following day, the crew were at their posts, awaiting their next mission via electronic transmission. ROB fidgeted with the controls of the Great Fox, having nothing to do but being virtually unable to keep still while activated, and he didn't often let anyone but Slippy put him offline. And Slippy was in the shop, welding and tinkering underneath the Land Master as Peppy reviewed combat data in the adjoining room to guide him in his enhancements. Falco paced both areas, repeatedly whipping a gun out of his holster, twirling it in his hand and replacing it, while whistling a tune of wanderlust and boredom.

Finally, Slippy had had enough. "Falco, willya knock off that racket? I'm trying to work here," he croaked his annoyance.

Falco stopped in an arrogant pose, kept Slippy's attention for just a moment, and then pointed the gun at the Land Master. "And I'm practicing my quick draw," he rasped.

"Ahhh! Wouldya stop playing around with that thing! It's dangerous!" Slippy, forever the cowardly one, was visibly frightened, throwing his arms up in cover and putting his hands over his face. "You never lift a finger around here if it isn't for your own amusement. Why don't you grab a wrench and _help_ me, if you know how."

Falco ruffled his feathers in his own annoyance. He and Slippy often bickered, toad insulting bird's intellect, and though Falco had given him little proof otherwise, Slippy knew Falco was smart. Perhaps even smarter than himself, when machines weren't involved, and it secretly ticked him off. In any event, Falco was vastly superior in reflexes, piloting skill and combat sense, and that alone left Slippy feeling bitter and inadequate, even having so much to offer the team in technical matters.

He snorted. "If I recall correctly, it's my job to be a good pilot, and it's your job to toy with the machines. I'm not in the way here, so mind your business and get back to work."

The room went dead silent as Slippy stopped what he was doing and rolled out from under the Land Master, face contorted with uncharacteristic fury. Falco had evidently touched on a nerve – touched on it, and stomped on it for good measure.

He stormed up to Falco. "You jerk! You're a … a complete pain in the ass, you know that! You always whine that my machines 'suck', that I'm … I'm a…" he shook with anger, searching for the right word, "a _catalyst_ for disaster!"

Falco burst into a scornful laugh at this and said, "You really can't help it, can you? You have to try to be so smart _all _the time, even if that's not what I said at all. And I call you disaster magnet, by the way, 'cause that's just what you are." At this point he was doubled over in laughter.

Suddenly, without warning, the impact of a poorly placed punch struck Falco in the side of the face, knocking him flat on the floor. It was more from the shock that he fell than from the pain, but he still sat rubbing his face, staring at his assailant. He'd been on the receiving end of much stronger blows in the past, but rarely from a friend or team mate, and for a moment, both he and Slippy were at a loss.

His eyes narrowed as he stood up, never leaving Slippy's now apprehensive gaze. Falco grabbed him by the collar with both wings, roughly lifted him off the ground, and shook him once before drawing him close and snarling, "If you ever hit me again, I'll see to it that I never save your sorry ass in battle ever again. Team mates in name only. Got that?"

With that, he released his grip on the trembling Slippy, who dropped with a thud to the floor, then walked emotionlessly away. Not a hint of expression had crossed his face throughout the whole ordeal, unlike his companion.

Slippy stayed as he'd been left a good while, stunned, before Peppy came in to see why he hadn't given a progress report on maintenance. He jogged gingerly towards Slippy, calling to him, "Can ya hear me alright, Slip?" but received silence his only answer.

"Slippy! What're you doin on the dang floor?" He trotted up to Slippy and knelt down. "My, whatever's gotten into you has got you good! D'ya need a break?"

"Falco, he… we had a fight…" Slippy started with some trepidation. Then, more decisively, he uttered, "I hate him."

The words were as an upturned jug of vitriol on Peppy's ears. "Slippy!" The rabbit hissed, his whiskers crinkling. He felt an upcoming turn as moderator of the younger pilots' petty squabbles fast approaching. It often fell to him to act as the voice of reason, but sometimes he too lost his seemingly infinite patience when the younger men acted so juvenile. He had gained the wisdom first-hand that camaraderie should not be compromised by frivolous qualms… lest it be the last time you set out as a team.

"You really oughtn't say such things! I'll have a talk with him later, but right now I wanna know what happened in here."

Peppy had a way of tempering the flare-ups of others with a wisely placed word, but this time, Slippy wouldn't have it.

"You obviously think _I _was responsible, if you're not even going to bother with him! Just leave me alone, old-timer. I don't need him, and I don't need patronizing from the likes of you." Slippy sprung to his feet and flitted away towards his quarters.

"Oh dear, what'll I do…" Peppy grumbled under his breath. "Where is that wily fox when you need him?"

Fox, however, was nowhere to be seen – he lingered by the docking bay, polishing the sheen on his Arwing, as he had been all morning. He contemplated the dents and scratches that he adamantly refused ever be pounded out, recalling in which dogfight, or which high-speed pursuit, or which claustrophobic corridor each one had come to be. His ship was his visual memoir, telling the tale of his fledgling beginnings to his inauguration as team captain and everything in between.

He looked at his reflection in the freshly-polished alloy. He remembered when his father had shown him his old Arwing, when he had hoisted Fox into the seat because he'd been too small to climb in himself. He remembered his tiny reflection at that age staring back at him, saucer-eyed in wonderment, from the cobalt wings, how it had seemed to new and wonderful to him then… and then claimed his father's life.

No, it hadn't been the Arwing that was to blame, as Pigma's betrayal had been the instrument of the original team's disbandment and James McCloud's demise. But whenever he climbed aboard his ship, Fox felt a tinge of terror and sadness shoot through him, doubt seizing his will and bidding him urgently to escape. The others didn't know it, but that's why he was always last to launch – he had to assuage his personal demons till his hands would grip the controls. He had learned the day his father never returned that the Arwing was not just a war machine, but a comrade-in-arms, one to be feared and respected, but also trusted if one was going to accomplish his duty. Trusted as a lifeline to the last, when it could be one's salvation, or their coffin…

Before he could finish the thought, a clattering of falling tools rocketed him out of his reverie. Slippy had thrown off his tool belt, sending its contents careering down the halls. He burst through the far end of the hangar's main gate, his mind whirring madly with deep resentments, and paid his onlooker no heed as he marched up to his Arwing, popped open the roof, and slid inside.

Fox, still collecting his wits about him, watched the scene unfold a moment in stunned silence, then, with mounting alarm, realized the possible implications should he not interfere. In one fluid motion, he slid into the seat of his Arwing, jabbed the button that would open a communications channel with Slippy, and spoke hurriedly into the microphone.

"Slippy! Slippy, do you read? What do you think you're doing? Slippy!"

His only answer the static hiss of empty airwaves, Fox propelled himself over the side of his ship with one hand and landed running. He made for the air lock as the G-Diffuser system of Slippy's Arwing rumbled to life and swathed everything in the darkened hangar in its red-blue glow.

Fumbling feverishly with the controls to engage the lock, Fox squinted through the shadows at the emergency panel's obscured labels, on each attempt casting a panicked glance at the wall-mounted indicator light to see if it had changed from green to red. Once, twice, a third time he tried, to no avail. Finally, the warning sirens began to wail, and a voice over the intercom rang out its own words of warning:

"Scramble, scramble… launch sequence initiated, evacuate immediately. Scramble, scramble…"

Fox abandoned his plight for the safety of the neighbouring safe room before the room would be depressurized. He could only watch helplessly as the door automatically opened and Slippy, his eyes transfixed and unable to see Fox looking at him, sped out and into the void beyond.


	3. Chapter 3: Deliberation

It had been six minutes since Slippy had beaten his very hasty retreat, and the three remaining members of Star Fox were gathered to discuss a plan of action. Any explanation of the reasons for Slippy's unexpected departure was put on hold while they plotted his course courtesy of the onboard tracking system installed in Great Fox's computer.

On its monitor, a green dot blipped on and off, inching slowly away from the center. They'd reached a natural break in the discussion and now watched the screen less intently, except for Peppy, who soon piped up once again.

"I can't stop thinking we should flag him down out there, and try to talk some sense into him…" he repeated for the umpteenth time.

"We've been over this," Fox exhaled deeply. Peppy's concerns, though well-meaning, were getting the better of his judgment and holding up the proceedings.

"I tried to stop him," he noted. "Merely catching up to Slippy isn't going to solve anything, without a way to get him to come back with us."

Falco shrugged. "Maybe he just needs some time to cool off, to blow off some steam," he offered, with a snide grunt. "He was pretty pissy earlier. If he wants to fly around a little, let's not bother him."

Peppy was visibly irked by the statement. "Some attitude you've got there. He could be putting himself…" he intoned, voice trembling, "his life in danger!"

Falco clapped his hands down on the desk, leaning towards Peppy, eyes narrowed. "Slippy's a big boy; he knows what he's getting into. If he wants to run off, it's not my problem," he grumbled.

Peppy slammed his fists down hard on the desk, startling both Fox and Falco, who staggered back a half step in surprise. It was unlike him to have such a forceful outburst.

"It's our problem if he gets himself killed!" he snapped. "We're a team, Falco, if you haven't noticed, and it's about time you started acting like it."

Falco glared angrily, the sneer on his face forming into a full scowl. He knew where this was headed.

"You better not try to lay the blame on me for this, you old hack. It's not my fault he pulled this crap while we're still on call. If he knew his responsibilities better, and hadn't hit me in the face, maybe I'd start acting like his damn team mate."

"I'm sure if he hit you in the face, it was only to smack that smart mouth right off it," Peppy shot back.

Fox could tell the situation was getting far out of control. "Please," he implored, "would you two stop bickering until we've come up with a way to stop Slippy!"

Both rabbit and bird turned in unison to look at fox, their guards lowered, and the edge gone from both their voices as they agreed to return to the task at hand.

Fox pointed to the screen. "He's heading towards Fortuna, quite quickly I might add…"

He tapped a finger pensively on the monitor, wondering what, if anything, Slippy could possibly hope to find on the desolate planet of ice and snow. The possibility still remained that he could turn around at any time, but with each passing second, it seemed increasingly unlikely.

As well as being a tracking device, the homing beacon, which Slippy himself had designed, also measured the integrity of the monitored ship. The gauge remained unchanged since Slippy had departed. _I can't believe he's gotten so far unharmed_, Fox thought, then chastised himself for thinking so little of Slippy's piloting skill. But it couldn't be denied – without anyone to cover him, Slippy's survival was in a heightened degree of peril. But then, there was absolutely no one was stationed around the insignificant Fortuna, friend or foe.

Peppy chimed in. "Well, he'll probably be alright for the time being… but if he's out much longer, I'm going to go out after him. At the rate he's burning fuel, he may not even have enough to get back."

"Unless, of course, we followed him in the Great Fox, against orders…"

A glance passed between Fox and Peppy that meant, Leave it to Falco to come up with that suggestion. They would have to again indulge his rebellious side with a negative reaction.

"Falco, you know that just can't happen. We have to remain stationed here until we know for certain that the threat to Katina has been neutralized." Fox recalled that it was standard procedure to scour the surface for 2 days following battle for any remnants of the enemy force that may have taken up hiding in the transfigured landscape.

"If anyone goes, they will go alone, until they are overwhelmed and intervention is absolutely required."

And so, the seconds ticked past in the flicker of the monitor, as the crew studied the trajectory of the single dot as it entered, then cleared Fortuna's airspace.


	4. Chapter 4: The Ties that Bind

Slippy cruised through the emptiness of space, distracted from what little manoeuvring he had to do by his nagging worries. His eyes stared blankly into the distance, unseeing, while his mind's eye was fixated inward on his many grievances. Whenever the shame he felt for behaving so irrationally and erratically surfaced, he crushed it by turning his thoughts back to Falco and the injustices he'd suffered at the hands of his contemptuous team mates. He reminded himself of their mockery in the field, their unappreciative reception of all his inventions, and of course, the way they insulted and dismissed his value as a pilot, like Falco had done that morning.

_Yes, I was justified_, he reasoned. _All they've done is use my capabilities for their own gain and give me no respect or recognition in return_. Never mind that they'd helped Slippy countless times in a pinch by blasting away the enemies he couldn't shake, or everything they'd been through as a team, or that they probably were quite concerned for his safety at this very moment. He owed them nothing!

And though the last thing he wanted to do was face them after what he'd done, he wondered: _if they really care, then where are they_?

But the more Slippy appealed to this victimized logic, the more ludicrous it truly seemed in his heart. He knew he should turn back, but he wasn't yet ready to admit to himself he'd made a mistake, much less own up to it in front of Falco. In his blind rage, Slippy decided that he would truly strike out on his own, and to do that he would cut ties with the ones he was fleeing so they could never possibly find him.

A perk of having designed it himself was that Slippy knew exactly how he could be rid of it. It was on the underside of his seat, but that could be changed with a simple press of the air tube button that blinked at him from the dashboard. He eyed it a moment, mind racing, blood rushing at the thought of what he was about to do, his fingers tense as coiled springs. His body and world paralyzed by nerves, time ticked by - seconds, then a minute passed…

In an instant his thoughts culminated into action, and that was all it took. In that instant, his hand pounced upon the button, the tube shot up from beneath him, the air-lock below it was released, and the homing device affixed to his seat was sucked into the vacuum of space, inertia carrying it forward till it was lost among the stars, while Slippy descended on Fortuna.


	5. Chapter 5: Differences Reconciled

Peppy had spent the day after Slippy's departure chasing the signal from the ownerless homing beacon, until he had finally eclipsed it, and discovered the meaningless nature of his pursuit. Slippy's ruse had left Peppy in a stupefied shock, where the sole words he could muster over the intercom had been stuttered utterances of disbelief.

"_What the… Slippy's not… where's the ship?"_

_He's made his Arwing a ghost ship_… he repeated silently, not fully understanding the situation himself. Back aboard the Great Fox, he remained a few long minutes in his Arwing, despondent, turning the phrase over in his mind, until his disbelief turned to outrage.

He marched towards the bridge, where Fox and Falco sat distractedly at their respective posts. They became acutely aware of Peppy as he burst through the door, the old rabbit cursing aloud.

"Hello to you too," Falco quipped, relaxing slightly in his chair. Although it registered clearly that he was the addressee of the current verbal assault, Falco didn't seem particularly offended by it. He rotated the seat to face Peppy, leaned his head back into folded wings, and propped his feet up on the low desk before him.

"On top of what he's already done to us, I can't believe he's stooped to tricking us now." Falco mused, eyeing the ceiling absently as he spoke. "We have one more day before the threat to Katina is confirmed neutralized. We don't have time to wait for him to cool off from his little temper tantrum and come back to us. And if he wants back, I guess we won't be finding him, either."

Peppy sauntered up to Falco, his normally buoyant gait now menacing and lumbering. He fixed his eyes on the bird, his slow, angry breaths now clearly audible.

"I have just about had it with you." He grabbed Falco by the sleeves of his jacket, bringing his face within inches of his own. "Don't you have any idea how serious this is? We may never see him again. I hope you'll be happy with that on your conscience."

Falco jumped indignantly to his feet, breaking his elder's grip. "Maybe you need a head check, gramps," he started, "because you can't seem to figure out that Slippy is responsible for his own actions. _He_ has abandoned _us_," he gesticulated, "and his duty. So stop looking for someone to blame, and blame him, not me. I'm sure General Pepper will."

Falco brushed the creases where he'd been grabbed from his sleeves with a few brusque motions, and settled snugly back into his chair.

Fox had watched the whole scene unfold with quiet intrigue and anxiety. Relations between his two crewmates, who hadn't been on the best terms to begin with, had been strained to the breaking point by this current turn of events. He knew Peppy abhorred Falco's carefree attitude, and merely put up with him. He also knew Falco regarded Peppy as nothing more than a starchy, outdated, bumbling old fool. Fox, ever the mediator, had been the one to mitigate all past quarrels until the sense of amity was restored. Perhaps that patience and skill were what most showed the leader in him. But he now grew weary of confrontation's tired refrain, as a rise in temper was about to reflect.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" he cried, fists clenched in fury. His would-be opposition was silenced.

"Listen to yourselves bicker. Do you forget who we are? We're Star Fox. We're the best, and we have no one else, and nowhere else, to go home to but each other. We need one another. And there was a time I thought we would always be together."

Fox paused, eyes downcast, then slumped limply back into his seat. He in a softer, more pleading tone, he continued.

"Can we put aside these petty grievances and admit that we all needed to do our part to keep Slippy here… and we all failed?"

Peppy and Falco remained mute at the proposition. Their eyes slowly and sternly met, and in them one could see the lingering contempt giving way to regret, and finally forgiveness.

They were a team once more.


	6. Chapter 6: A Frosty Welcome

Slippy was still warm in his cockpit as the condensation from entering Fortuna's frigidly cold atmosphere frosted over his windows. With his view of the outside so obstructed, he felt somehow more isolated than in the starless blankness of space, and a momentary sense of claustrophobia crashed like a wave over him.

_How am I going to land this thing? _he wondered.

The air howled as the wings sliced through it at breakneck speed, and headwinds from the ice rock's perpetual snowstorm rocked the little ship from side to side. Blinded to the outside and panicking on the inside, hands clenched tight on the flight stick, he wracked his mind for the correct landing procedure. He jabbed the button for the window defroster in the vain hope it might melt the ship's thickening shell and remedy his obfuscation.

By his design, the current generation of Arwing was more than capable of entry into airspaces exceedingly hot or cold, as he often boasted. But it was always the Great Fox that performed the duty of at least bringing the crew within close distance of the landing zone, thereby lessening the exposure to the deep freeze of space. Entry into extreme temperatures, therefore, did not usually have the dramatic effect on visibility that Slippy was currently witnessing. Having spent all this time in solitary confinement and with little aid from the computer's navigational system (these were fighters, after all, not truly intended to land outside the hangar of Great Fox), Slippy's worsening mental state was losing command over the situation.

_Okay, okay. It can't be that bad, _he thought of setting down. _The computer will tell me when I'm closing in for the landing... _he cranked the volume on the intercom speaker.

The hiss of empty airwaves that it blared was barely audible over the cacophony of whistling gales.

_Dammit, I can't hear a thing! _He violently flicked the switch that changed the system over to onscreen notifications, rather than the usual voice that would float over the intercom, and waited with baited breath for the signal to drop the landing gear.

Seconds turned into minutes as he descended rockily downward, and no signal came. Instead, the screen beamed a flashing warning that fuel was running low. Slippy was becoming furious.

"You stupid, piece of crap computer!" After the many hours spent cruising in complete silence, the angry sound of his own voice surprised him, making him stop short in his verbal assault. Sapped of hope, he twice pounded the small, green-tinted screen weakly with one fist, hung his head, and awaited the end.

Suddenly, he noticed it - an almost imperceptible, new warmth falling upon his face. He lifted his head to see that one side of the frostbitten cockpit had become brighter, distant light from Solar cutting through the storm, making him realize that the window defroster had cleared a small side window. He could see!

He twisted in his seat to get a glimpse of the view below, struggling to spot something, ANYTHING that would provide a safe landing. The terrain of Fortuna was uniformly flat, but mostly ice-encrusted, which would cause some severe damage to his ship.

_A snowbank,_ he thought, _would be ideal. There's not much else out here -- _

Something caught his eye as he finished the thought. Could it really be what it looked like? A squat, dark structure, nearly invisible behind the dusting of snow that clung to it, appeared like a mirage in the desert of white. It was large, perhaps even large enough to be a former hangar.

Indeed, as he drew closer, he could see that the top was an elevated landing pad.

Slippy relaxed in his seat. What luck! What a relief! He would land atop this building, and perhaps find an old supply depot to refuel and restock his ship, since in his haste to leave, he had neglected to do so after the bout on Katina.

He set down easily and turned the ignition off. Things were looking pretty good for Slippy...


	7. Chapter 7: Not Alone

Slippy stepped out into the bitter cold, his meagre vest transformed into a scarf, his ballcap pulled down to shield his face from the elements. He marched into the wind with great difficulty, searching for a hatch that would open onto the stairwell leading down into the facility. The markings painted on the tarmac were revealed here and there by the shifting snow, and Slippy squinted to see them as the glacial air stung his eyes.

He stumbled around a long time, following the arrows around in circles, before he noticed a latch poking out from beneath the powdery cover. Eyes locked onto his target, he bolted in its direction. The handle that raised the latch was not long to follow in revealing itself, and with one shivering, cold-numbed hand, Slippy grasped the frigid metal.

Thankfully, the hatch yielded to his cold-enfeebled tugging with little resistance, and, once cracked open just enough to slip through, Slippy clamoured eagerly into the stairwell, hatch slamming shut behind him and plunging him into darkness.

"AHHH!" He shrieked at the sudden sound and accompanying blindness, which, as he had just come from a prolonged stint in the brilliance of winter's glare, would be lamentably long to subside . It would be very difficult to navigate unfamiliar stairs in such complete obscurity, but since he had failed to supply himself with a torch of any sort aboard the Arwing, it was his only choice. Slippy sensed his panic arising as a grimace on his face.

"_Oooh_, why me!" went his lament down the echoing hall. After a moment's unrest, he closed his eyes and considered the nature of his situation, concentrating deeply on the relative safety that surely would be his on this leg of his voyage.

_I'm inside and alone. Just what I wanted so I could think this mess through. Or wait it out till someone comes looking for me. Yeah, it'll all be fine._

He succeeded in quelling his fears into something of a begrudging gratitude, and the grimace faded from his face.

Using the wall as a guide, Slippy shifted his weight carefully from step to step as he made his way down the stairs, counting the steps all the while - five, ten, fifteen, twenty-five... it helped pass the time for his methodical mind. Quickening his rhythm as he went, he found himself feeling quite pleased with his progress, and before he knew it, he'd reached the bottom - a hundred steps below the launch pad.

He frisked the walls for a means of escaping his dark prison. They were all sheer - the door had to be a push door that would open outward. He leaned his weight on each of the walls in turn in the hopes that one would part before him. It wasn't to his right, nor in front... and so, with a mighty heave, he burst through the door to his left and stumbled onto the warehouse floor, floodlights dimly delineating his surroundings.

Jumbled behind counters were parts that his discerning mechanic's eye could determine were slated for repair, and stacked on towering shelves were spare parts that had never seen the line of duty. He wandered the aisles, his shoes click-clacking crisply on the cement floor, the dusty air causing him to wheeze a little. Otherwise, it was a paradise of unused supplies for the desperate pilot and his vessel.

It wasn't terribly warmer inside than out, but Slippy could feel the numbness thawing from his hands. He was gingerly plucking items from their resting places, blowing off the thick layer of dust to read the labels, and beginning to have quite a good time in spite of himself.

_If only the others could see this place! We could save a lot of time and money on repairs and replacements if we hauled some of this stuff onto Great Fox. _

As he said the words, however, they tore at his heart. Even here, he could not help but find reminders of the people from whom he was still running and think fond thoughts of returning to them. How long would he continue this charade of righteous indignation? He had long ago admitted to himself that the jig was up; he wanted to go back, to pretend as though this had never happened and be among his own, but the embarrassment of the ownership he would have to take was the part that kept him running. Could he really ask their forgiveness, and if so, would they so readily bestow it? The only certain thing was that he could not continue without food, water, and shelter forever, and the galaxy held only one place where he had ever known the security of these comforts. He had to try. If only he had some way to contact them, a way that he hadn't purposely severed in his foolishness...

With this new goal in mind, Slippy set about searching the complex. The warehouse was enormous, moreso than it appeared, and walking the distance to the far side of the room left him winded. A door barred his path, requiring a keycard to pass.

"Just a little hitch," Slippy mused aloud, as he inspected the mechanism. With his know-how, he could gain access with minimal effort, and so he did. Feeling quite pleased his resourcefulness, Slippy was eager to rejoin Star Fox with newly inspired confidence. The time he'd spent alone had taught him a great deal, and for the first time, he felt ready to face anything that the enemies of Star Fox could throw at him.

Having hacked the computer's memory, recovered the passcode of the last person to have used the door and punched it in on the keypad, Slippy's success was indicated by a green light now shining from the panel. The door whisked open, and Slippy walked triumphantly through. A soothing tone rang out over the intercom, welcoming him... but what came over next chilled him to the core.

"Welcome back, Wolf O'Donnell."


End file.
